Chapter One - The Forest of Dean
Deep in the woods of the Forest of Dean, Hermione hunched over a steaming cauldron looking every bit the kind of witch muggles scared their children with sordid tales of. All she needed was a Snape-esque nose to complete the fantasy. She snorted at the thought, shaking her head to rid herself of the distracting mental image.
Satisfied that the Tracking Potion she was working on was safe to simmer largely unsupervised, the witch stretched her back, rolling out her neck and wincing at the resultant clicks her body made in protest. She looked around her sad excuse of a kitchen in her sad excuse of an abode. Not a home. The tent she had lived in with Harry and Ron while on the run the year before was many things, but luxurious was not one of them. In a sick way, she supposed it was a self-imposed prison. A constant reminder of the trauma she had experienced and the parentless child she had made herself.
Not an orphan. She couldn’t bring herself to use that word. If she was an orphan, that would mean she’d killed her parents. She tried not to think about the fact that she may as well have. It certainly felt like they had died.
This Tracking Potion though… this could change everything. It wasn’t something that had existed before - well, before him. It was thanks to him that this was even a possibility, but it was also his fault that it was necessary. It continued to astound Hermione that it was indeed feasible to both love and hate a dead man.
Because Severus Snape was dead. If he wasn’t, he surely would have found some way to contact her by now. He was a cruel man, but not a heartless one despite popular belief. He wouldn’t abandon her now if he lived.
The Tracking Potion was a contingency. It was in the middle of development when everything had fallen apart. When he had killed - when Dumbledore had died.
Hermione huffed at the turn her mind had taken, and reprimanded herself to focus on the task at hand. She monitored the cauldron before her with a critical eye, disappointed but unsurprised when its contents started to curdle after only five minutes.
She had been stuck at a dead end for months now. If she could only have the chance to peruse Professor Snape’s notes, maybe… But, no. That wasn’t an option. She had ventured to Hogwarts on a whim one day to do exactly that, but nothing came of it. The castle, in its all-magical and all-annoying sentience, had taken it upon itself to seal shut the entrance to her late Professor’s quarters. No hex or axe was strong enough to dismantle the castle’s magical wards, and she had finally given up on the endeavour when the castle itself began to groan in protest at her attempts.
“Right, that’s enough of the pity party,” Hermione muttered angrily, wiping furiously at the moisture that was gathering under her eyes.
Standing around and crying in an unplottable tent that was falling apart around her wouldn’t solve anything. She would know - she’d had six months to do just that after all.
It wasn’t that finding her parents wasn’t urgent - it was certainly top of her ever-growing to do list. The ugly truth of it was that Hermione had never let herself think about the possibility she might be doing this on her own. She had counted, albeit naively, on having a mentor to guide her and give her much-needed direction in her search. She had fancied that perhaps by that time, he might even consider them equals or - an even more fanciful notion - friends.
Of course, it was a pipe dream that had never seen the light of day. Still, Hermione was lost. Brightest-witch-of-her-age and all that rot, but she couldn’t make a simple fucking potion.
Never mind that no one had created such a potion before without first imbuing it with blood magic so dark and ancient it could do nothing but corrupt those who came in contact.
Which, obviously, could very easily kill a lesser witch or wizard let alone a defenceless muggle and wasn’t something she would risk trialling on her parents or herself for the fun of it.
Not to mention the PTSD of it all. Frozen in time for weeks, she had done nothing but sleep eighteen hours a day and take long, scalding hot showers at the muggle gym in the nearest town over. A quick Confundus charm to the receptionist meant she didn’t have to pay a penny for the small luxury she allowed herself.
When she had finally emerged from the fog, she had done so with a vengeance as if making up for lost time, but it had been for nought. Months and months of researching and brewing and stretching her brain to the brink, and she had nothing to show for it except for a violet-purple sludge burnt to the bottom of her cauldron.
She knew what Professor Snape would say if he were beside her. He would scold her for thinking so highly of herself that she could create such a complex potion out of thin air in a matter of months. He would sneer that she was a know-it-all, and an arrogant one to boot. Perhaps throw in a snide comment about Harry’s attitude rubbing off on her.
Her scalp prickled at the thought of his thin lips curled in a cruel smirk. How sad that she had never had the chance to see him truly smile for the sake of it and not in sadistic mockery of others.
She often thought of the dark wizard, with a bemused familiarity that would have shocked Harry and Ron. She would admit it unashamedly to anyone who asked - even Snape himself - that she’d grown fond of the greasy git. He wasn’t so bad, once you learned to read between the lines and hear what he didn’t say instead of what he did.
Hermione had always secretly suspected that the two intellectuals would get along well, if at least one party could stop being so stubborn and prideful. She had been delighted in her sixth year to discover just how on the mark she was.
He was intelligent, exacting, foreboding, and everything she could ask for in a mentor. She’d known when she owled him on the eve of her seventeenth birthday - during the summer before her sixth year - that he would not hesitate to crush her spirit in order to teach her the skills necessary to survive Voldemort’s particular brand of mental torture. He would not falter. He would break her and put the pieces back together stronger than ever with no remorse or pity.
So God created man in His own image, Hermione mused. For was she too not a soldier of the light, however dim and dirt-streaked said light might be?
The thought followed her all throughout the day, as she tidied up her workstation and put away her equipment in defeat. It shadowed her as she dressed in a plain t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. As she brushed her hair into a barely-controlled plait down the side of her neck and scrubbed her teeth hard enough to taste metal in her mouth.
On Sundays, she ventured to the muggle Post Shop in Cinderford, the little Parish town nearest to the Forest of Dean, and collected mail from her P.O. Box. The only people who could reach her here were Harry and - surprisingly - Fred. Harry must have taught him how to send letters the muggle way at some point, and Hermione was too grateful it hadn’t been Ron or any other pushy Weasley to question it. She had made the tent unplottable out of habit more than necessity, but had come to appreciate not having to receive guests or unwanted fan letters too much to reverse the charm work.
Unlocking her lockbox and collecting her mail took all of two seconds, and she waved at the bored-looking teenager manning the register of the post shop before stepping out into the grey town square. She made her way to the little park and subsequent pond across the cobblestoned street.
Sitting down at her favourite bench which was situated against a stone wall and granted a generous view of the picturesque pond, Hermione set about reading her correspondence. The first letter she opened was from Fred Weasley.
Mione,
I thought you’d be pleased to know that George and I have knuckled down and come up with some serious products - even selling stuff to Mungos and the Ministry. You always believed that we could be more than pranksters and that faith has not gone unfounded, my dear. (Although, to be clear, pranks and jokes are still very much on the proverbial table, rest assured).
Ginny misses you. It’s been hell keeping it from her that we’re in contact - but I’’m respecting your wishes for it to remain a secret for now. I’m not having as much trouble with Ron to be honest - he’s a prick and it serves him right to be ‘ghosted’ by a girl instead of doing the ghosting like he did with LavLav (yuck!). Also, Harry taught me what ghosting is. What a marvellous concept - who knew one could be ghosted and not be the ghost? Clearly the muggles are onto something we magic folk can’t comprehend.
Anyway, this is just my weekly missive to let you know that no ones dead, there are no emergencies that need your big, beautiful brain, and we’re all here with open arms (and legs, in Ronnikins’ case) when you’re ready to come back.
Love,
The Most Handsome Red-Head,
Fred W. XX
Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle aloud at the twin’s buoyant nature radiating from the parchment. She imagined the twin laughing at his own jokes as he penned them, and felt a pang of loss hit her. She had given up so much for this so-called ‘peace’ of hers.
She shook off the thought, and opened the next envelope with more enthusiasm.
H,
How are you? I hope you’re okay. I worry about you an awful lot - I don’t like the thought of you alone in the middle of nowhere. Which is probably why you haven’t told me exactly where you are - although I can guess. I do know basic geography, you know. Even if the wizarding world never heard of a thing called Social Studies.
Getting off track. I’m writing mainly to let you know that I’m breaking up with Ginny. At some point. Soonish? I think. No, I know. I know I shouldn’t drag it out, but as you can probably tell, I’m a bit freaked out about it all. Listen, I love Gin, you know I do. But, well… I’m always going to be The Boy Who Lived to her. Even when I’m just Harry to her, I still feel like I’m not measuring up to the picture she had in her head.
That’s probably unfair to put words in her mouth, but honestly I think she feels it too. I get the sense that she’s constantly trying to peel back layers that I just don’t have - I’m not an onion, for God’s sake!
Getting off track again. I’m telling you because it’s not like I can talk to anyone else about it - I mean, her brother’s my best friend! He’s going to kill me, Hermione, I just know it.
This might be the last letter I ever write to you. If you never hear from me again, know that I met Ron’s wrath with a wavering voice and piss in my pants, like the true hero I am.
Missing you always sis,
H (XOXO)
Well, that was unexpected. Or not, if Hermione was completely honest. She loved Ginny and she loved Harry, but they weren’t a soul match by any means. Ginny was driven and ambitious and took no shit, whereas Harry was chill, steadfast, and dependable. While he had been a hotheaded idiot for the better part of the last few years, she couldn’t exactly blame him. He’d had a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside of him unwittingly for his entire life. A lesser man would have gone completely mad.
Hermione had seen glimpses of the man Harry would become during their time on the run. He was quiet, authoritative in a reluctantly charming way, and would need someone who would be able to ground him when his affinity for danger and knack of making himself a martyr got the best of him.
She pondered on the nature of her best friend for a time, her thoughts turning naturally to Ron, the rest of the Weasley clan ,and other friends she hadn’t been in contact with since her self-imposed exile from wizarding society six months ago.
She wasn’t getting any closer to her goal in isolation. Hadn’t she punished herself enough? It was no longer a productive or sickly-satisfying use of her time.
The young witch was so lost in thought that she almost forgot about the third letter in her pile - noticing it only when she went to stand and the envelope fluttered to her feet at the movement. She opened it apprehensively. She’d never had a third correspondent before. How did they know her location? Neither Harry nor Fred had mentioned passing on the information.
She checked the envelope cautiously, casting a simple Revelio. Nothing. She had no choice but to open it to see what or whom might be the cause of this oddity.
Miss Granger,
I am writing with a matter of great importance and utmost secrecy.
Severus Snape has been found alive. The castle - Severus’ sealed quarters - they protected him and kept him safe until such a time that he recovered enough to join the world of the living. It is magic unlike anything I’ve seen before.
The door unsealed itself this afternoon, and after ascertaining the Professor’s wellbeing, I immediately sat down to write you this missive at his urgent request.
Please, come as soon as you can.
Yours,
Headmistress Minerva McGonagall
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry